If he had a lick of sense, he would have ridden away. But these were Double Diamond cattle and Joe Easterly probably rode for that brand.

  More than that, he didn’t cotton much to being treated so poorly. He wanted to find Easterly now and give him a piece of his mind about the others in his company. Joe had always been an amiable sort. Not too bright, but loyal to a fault. No matter how dirty the job, if Lemuel asked, Joe was willing to do it.

  Carson let the sun dip low over the western canyon rim. When shadows lengthened enough to hide him, he rode back to where he had first encountered the cowboys. He let his horse drink its fill, then pushed on into the canyon. By now, the wranglers would have bedded down the herd for the night a mile or two deeper into the rugged, red-walled canyon.

  Carson wasn’t sure what he intended, but cutting one of the riders from his friends and asking after Easterly appealed to him. His irritation at being shot at had grown as he rode all day. How he extracted the information about Easterly made him think of Apache tortures and other unpleasant ways of asking.

  The herd shifted restlessly as he approached. Avoiding the bull was all he needed to do if he wanted to get closer. Carson stepped down and tied his horse to a low saltbush. He checked the sky to see what stars were visible above the canyon rims. He used a bright one as his guidepost and a dimmer one to mark direction. If he forgot his zigzagging through the undergrowth, returning to his horse would be easier using the pilot stars above.

  Tramping along, silently cursing the prairie dog burrows he constantly encountered, he reached a spot where an outrider sat on his horse, one leg hooked around the pommel as he played a baleful tune on his harmonica.

  The sound kept the cattle quiet. More than this, the song hid any sound Carson made as he approached. He neared one cow. A sleepy eye opened to study him. The eyelid drooped back and the cow snorted noisily. On its haunch, he saw the brand.

  It wasn’t anything like a Double Diamond.

  He had been inventive cursing out the prairie dogs and their ankle-turning holes. Finding he had followed the wrong herd all day long brought even more inventive cusswords rolling out.

  The harmonica tune suddenly stopped. Carson put his hand on his six-gun just as the cowboy swiveled about in the saddle. Being on the ground, hidden by the bulk of nearby beeves, he wasn’t spotted right away …

  But he was spotted. The harmonica-playing cowboy was more alert than he gave him credit for.

  “That you, Jenkins?”

  The cowboy dropped his leg and worked his boot into the stirrup. He eased his horse around and walked slowly in Carson’s direction.

  “Yeah, it’s me.” Carson kept his voice low and tried to muffle it.

  “Don’t sound like you.”

  Carson coughed. He slipped his six-shooter from the holster and waited. As the cowboy came around the cow shielding Carson, he let out a cry.

  “You ain’t Jenkins! Who—”

  He never got further. Two quick steps and a jump sent Carson into the air so he could grab a handful of shirt with his left hand and swing the pistol around with his right. The steel barrel struck the mounted wrangler on the chin. When he jerked away, Carson let go of his grip. The cowboy tumbled from the saddle on the far side of the horse.

  A moment of confusion as the man’s horse crow-hopped around, causing enough of a disturbance for the nearby cattle to low and look around for the threat. Something disturbed their sleep and they didn’t like it. Carson dodged the horse, dropped to one knee, and swung his six-gun again. This time, he connected with the top of the man’s head. From the way the cowboy sagged, he had been knocked out.

  Panting harshly, Carson got to his feet.

  The steady clip-clop of an approaching horse swung Carson around. He was going to have to shoot his way out yet.

  “What’s the ruckus? You got the cattle all riled up.”

  “Sorry, Jenkins. Had to take a leak.”

  Carson relaxed when the other man laughed harshly.

  “You and them puny kidneys. I swear, you should tie string around the tip and pull it tight like a noose.”

  “Noose, yeah,” Carson said, realizing there had to be some response or the other man—Jenkins—would be suspicious. Luck had ridden with him using the man’s name. That had settled the dust quickly enough.

  “We’re almost at the meadow where we’ll swap herds. Get ’em movin’ at first light.”

  “First light.”

  He frowned. What were they up to? Swap herds? What did that mean? He must have gotten himself mixed up with a gang of rustlers. But swap herds? That wasn’t something rustlers did.

  Jenkins rode off, grumbling. His dark shape melted into the soft night. The cattle continued to stir. He wished he hadn’t slugged the rustler laid out on the ground. More of his harmonica music would have settled the beeves right down.

  Even if he found the harmonica, Carson wasn’t able to play it. He had a tin ear. Most all music sounded the same to him. More than once when he’d tied one on, others even drunker than him had threatened to strap a sack over his head and throw him into a river to stop his caterwauling.

  The cattle continued restlessly stirring. A hundred yards away, a loud shriek, almost human, ripped through the night.

  Carson cursed for real. He knew that sound. A wolf had found itself a tasty meal. Grunting, he heaved the unconscious cowboy across his saddle and swatted the horse’s rump. Twenty yards away, the man slipped from his spot draped over the saddle and crashed to the ground. His horse galloped away.

  A quick look at the sky let Carson find his bright guiding star. For a moment, the second star’s position confused him. To return to where he’d tethered his horse meant going in the wrong direction. He shook his head, then located the stars again. The fight, the herd, the night, it had all turned him around.

  In spite of seeming to be wrong, he went in the direction dictated by logic rather than what his senses told him. He let out a sigh of relief when he saw his horse. It tugged hard at the secured reins, threatening to pull the saltbush out by its roots. Before he reached it, a pair of burning yellow eyes to his left stared at him unblinkingly.

  Another set of eyes joined the first. Then six more fixed on him.

  A wolf hadn’t brought down the cow. A pack of wolves had.

  He reacted rather than thought. His six-gun cleared leather. Three quick shots aimed between those glowing, feral eyes drove the wolf away. Without a good target, other than those eyes, he had almost no chance of hitting a low-slung gray wolf in the darkness.

  Vaulting into the saddle, he found another problem facing him.

  His gunfire had spooked the herd. Together with the wolves hunting for dinner, they had taken it into their bovine minds to stampede.

  The ground shook as if an earthquake rattled the earth.

  CHAPTER 12

  Clay Carson knew he should head for higher ground. Stampeding cattle took the easy road when they panicked. That was the smart thing, but he couldn’t do it. Too many head of cattle were on the trail behind him. As if some insane single thought struck their bovine brains at the same instant, they rushed to join the others in the stampede up the canyon.

  Any chance of avoiding the cattle was gone in a flash. The only thing he could do was ride with the herd and try not to fall under those deadly, flashing hooves.

  He put his heels to his horse’s flanks. His mount tried to do the smart thing and veer away from the herd. Carson bent low and kept up his insistent pull on the reins to turn the horse toward the mass of running beeves. The horse finally relented. Carson almost wished the horse had won the battle of wills.

  Within seconds, the straining, snorting, frightened cows surrounded them. He kept up the frantic pace until his horse began to flag, but by then the bulk of the herd had outpaced him. Still bent low over his bay’s neck, he eased back and slowed. If he had done this earlier, the cattle would have run over him. As it was, a few bumped into his horse and sent it reeling.

  Then he rode behind the mindlessly running herd. The beeves vanished up the darkened canyon. All that remained was a choking cloud of dust and the diminishing thunder of their hooves.

  He caught his breath, then walked his horse to a large pond. The horse lapped up water noisily while he thought. Before the stampede, he had considered returning to where Lemuel and the others rested. Sometimes, no matter how hard a man tried, success was always just out of his grasp.

  The wranglers weren’t too friendly, and even if these were Double Diamond cattle—from what he saw at first of their brands, they were—it was possible Joseph Easterly wasn’t riding with them.

  That had been a consideration. Leave Joe Easterly be and tell Jones that the former gang member was nowhere to be found. That wasn’t much of a fib, because he had not seen Joe, nor had any of the cowboys—the men he supposedly rode with—willingly admitted he was in their crew.

  He could have done that, but getting shot at and nearly getting ground to bloody pulp by five hundred head of cattle changed his outlook. To endure all that and not succeed rankled more than he cared to admit.

  Carson vowed to finish the hunt for a man who had been his partner. He and Easterly had always gotten on well, even if they hadn’t been best friends. Giving up wasn’t in his makeup.

  Carson trotted along in the dark. The canyon walls rose higher and cut off even more of the wan starlight until only a thin ribbon of stars stretched above. Keeping to the middle of the canyon gave him an easy road to ride. The stream flowing from higher ground to fill the small ponds at the canyon mouth gleamed just enough to provide a silvery trail to follow. Within a half hour, he came upon a few cattle milling around. A few worked on the blue grama, nuzzling the ground and biting off the grass to renew their strength after the stampede. Others already snorted and swayed as they once more slept, dreaming their cow dreams.

  Loud voices ahead alerted him that the cowboys were about done moving strays back into the herd. He wished he could ask after Easterly and get an honest reply. From his initial greeting, the only answer he was likely to get was an ounce of lead in the gut.

  The cloak of night kept him from being recognized as an intruder as he rode closer to a tight knot of wranglers. From the snippets he overheard, they argued about getting another herd mingled in with these.

  He had no idea why the wranglers were even here. The cattle ought to be wandering the prairie, grazing and getting ready for a drive to a railhead in a few months. Tending cattle too much at this time of year only caused them to go off their feed and not gain weight. Every pound meant an extra nickel to the owner of the Double Diamond spread. If the stampede burned off a pound for every cow, the rancher lost a minimum of twenty-five dollars in a single night. That was enough to pay one of the wranglers a month’s salary.

  Carson hoped the ramrod wasn’t counting the men around him too closely. He rode past and tried to get a better look at the men arguing over whatever they felt so strongly about. A couple sounded scared. One was downright hesitant from the way he backed off from the discussion, and the ramrod was close to shouting at the others.

  Not seeing Easterly, he decided to give up his hunt. He turned his horse’s face when the ramrod began a long and inventive series of curses.

  All Carson heard out of the blue streak as the man cussed was: “Easterly better not be slacking off. Where is he?”

  “He rode ahead, boss,” the fearful cowboy said. He pointed deeper into the canyon.

  “I need him to scout the other herd. He’s the one who put the burr under Casimir’s saddle to do this in the first place.”

  Those words set off another round of discussion that Carson couldn’t follow. However, he heard what he needed to know. A snap of the reins sent him into the dark shroud that spread over the canyon. From a quick look at the sky, he reckoned it was a couple hours until sunrise. It might be longer before sunlight caressed the canyon floor due to the high rock walls, but even a hint of dawn would reveal a stranger in the midst of the herd.

  He rode along faster than was prudent, but knowing Joe was ahead made him throw caution to the winds. The sooner he talked with his former partner, the sooner they’d be on their way. He felt good about recruiting the man again to ride with Lemuel Jones. Easterly had taken a delight in every robbery, even if they hadn’t always made off with much money.

  Before he knew it, he found the leading edge of the herd. The cattle had mostly gone back to sleep. A few lowed and moved about aimlessly, but they weren’t serious about defending the herd. He kept an eye peeled for a bull, but found Easterly before he did an angry fifteen-hundred-pound bovine sentry.

  As he rode up, he wondered what Easterly was about. The man stood in the stirrups and craned his head around, as if hunting for something. Only solid, towering walls on either side and the canyon itself were in view. The stream flowed much wider here, betraying a nearby source. A steady gushing noise confirmed that guess. He was close to the headwaters here, so the herd wasn’t going much farther. He’d seen quite a few streams like this start at the end of a box canyon.

  “Joseph!” he called out.

  This caused Easterly to drop into the saddle and whip out his pistol. He had always been good with his six-gun, fast on both the draw and to get off the first shot. His accuracy was always lacking, but sometimes that first shot discombobulated an opponent, and that was good enough to let him take aim with a second, more accurate bullet.

  “Whoa, settle down. Don’t spook the cows again.”

  “Who’s there? You with Bailey’s crew?”

  Carson held his hands out to show he wasn’t drawing a bead.

  “That’s a name I heard earlier on. You ride for the Double Diamond or this Bailey fellow?”

  “You sound like someone I knew.” Easterly held his six-gun in his hand and covered Carson as he approached slowly.

  “Glad you remember me.” Carson turned from side to side, as if his face was bathed in a spotlight. The stars hardly gave much illumination, but it was enough.

  “As I live and breathe, it is you. Clay Carson!”

  “Put your gun away. I’m a mite uneasy calling out like this. Your new trail companions are a bit testy.”

  “You talked with them?”

  “With about all of them, including the ramrod.”

  Easterly slid his six-shooter back into his holster.

  “Henry always acts like he’s got a toothache. Don’t think anything about him.”

  “Henry’s the ramrod?”

  “Henry Gregson. He’s some relation to the ranch owner. I never figured out what. A second cousin or a nephew or something. But enough of that. What’re you doing out here?” Easterly hesitated, then added, “What are you doing out here this particular night?”

  Carson explained the reason for daring Gregson and a stampede and finished, “So Lemuel isn’t long for the world. He wants to make amends and divvy up the gold from the Fort Worth bank, since he kept it all for himself.”

  “That no-account, low-down—” Easterly cut off his appraisal of Jones and his ancestry. He rode until his and Carson’s knees bumped. He asked eagerly, “How much?”

  “How much?”

  “How much gold? Whatever’s there, Lemuel’s willing to split it equally among us. Minus his cut?” Easterly asked.

  For a moment, Carson considered, then nodded. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that Jones didn’t need a share. He was a dead man living on borrowed time.

  “What’ll it be?” Carson queried.

  “I’d ride with you in a flash, only …”

  “Only you’re rustling your boss’s cattle,” Carson guessed.

  “No! Not that at all, Clay. I like working for Casimir. Gregson’s got some rough edges, but he doesn’t treat us too bad. It’s just that …” His voice trailed off again.

  “What are you going to do with the herd?”

  “That’s a tad difficult to explain. I mean, I know, but it’s not exactly legal. If you knew, you could testify against us if we’re all caught.”

  “Either come or stay. I’m not wasting more time out here. Jones will greet you with open arms. I can’t say you should expect the same from Gregson.”

  Easterly let out a long sigh. “I’m in, Clay. Really. But there’s something more than the herd to consider.”

  “You didn’t up and get hitched? You’ve got a woman waiting for you?”

  “You jump to the wildest conclusions. Naw, nothing like that. But if I join back up with Jones, there’s someone I’d want to come along.”

  Carson turned and looked past Easterly. From the darkness farther up the canyon, a man rode toward them, and he flashed now and again as he bounced their way. He had to be festooned with silver conchas, each of which reflected the starlight like a tiny beacon.

  “Joe, who’s this? You got trouble?” The rider slowed a dozen yards off. He reached for his six-gun.

  “Calm down, Daniel.”

  Carson heaved a deep sigh. He knew now who joined them, and he knew what Easterly intended to ask. Somewhere in recruiting the old gang, he was going to catch a break. Finally finding Joe was good luck. This wasn’t.

  “You never met my brother, Daniel. He’s all growed up now, from when we rode together.”

  “You’re Clay Carson! I’d recognize you anywhere. Joe’s all the time braggin’ on how him and you was the best of friends and you were the fastest gun he ever did see.”

  “Joseph’s not all that slow.”

  “But you’re quicker on the trigger, aren’t you, Mr. Carson?”

  The youngster rode closer. Carson got a better look at him. He was the spitting image of his older brother, even to the way a shock of unruly hair snuck out from under his hatband. His expression made Carson uneasy. The youngster, hardly seventeen, if that, looked at him as if he was the greatest thing since apple pie.

  “What kind of stories have you filled his empty head with, Joseph?”

  Easterly laughed and said, “Everything I’ve said about you’s the gospel truth.”

  “He knows about us? I mean, both of us ridin’ with Jones?”